No Explanations Needed
by Reia
Summary: What does *Molly Hooper* want? Post-TFP


_Will explain. -SH_

Two weeks had passed since Sherlock sent the brief text and she hadn't heard another word. No phone calls. No random drop-ins—at the morgue or her flat. She was proud that she wasn't checking her phone at every free interval, but she couldn't help but glance at the calendar and note the passage of time.

Two weeks.

Life went on.

Frankly, she was happy to have a reprieve, some space to think about what the call meant to _her_ , without extra reasoning. She needed time to process their… conversation... to see if it would change things, if she _wanted_ a change and what that meant…

She needed time to simply think, "What does _Molly Hooper_ want?"

But as she waited at John Watson's home, she was still unsure of what the answer was.

When the door flung open, John beamed at her gratefully as he adjusted Rosie in his arms. "Molly, thank you, you're a life saver."

He sounded breathless, like he was in a rush, and that seemed to be the case as he immediately handed his child over the moment she stepped through the foyer.

"Yes, yes, of course, no problem," Molly said, while bouncing the cute tot on her hip. She craned her head around which John caught, slowing his movements.

"He's not here."

"Oh! Well, okay," Molly said awkwardly.

John sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly. "Sorry, I have to run Molls, but… ugh, why is he _such_ an idiot?"

John touched her shoulder, a placating gesture. "He asked me _not_ to tell you anything. He wants to do it himself. But, it's a whole mess. There's a… family issue. There's just so much going on right now."

Molly nodded, though not quite understanding.

"And it's _not_ my place to ask you," John went on. "But, please. Do hear him out. It's… complicated."

"It always is with him, isn't it?"

John pursed his lips, looking like he was going to say more, but then his phone pinged. "All right, I have to go, but…"

"Go," Molly said with an eye roll. "I'm fine."

John flashed her another grateful smile before bounding out the door.

Molly squeezed Rosie a bit tighter.

.

/o/

.

Four weeks had now passed and by this time, Molly was _sure_ that Sherlock was _avoiding_ her. She'd actually once _caught_ a glimpse of his Belstaff the last time she visited John, who had seemed startled at the detective's sudden disappearance through the back door.

It was clear John had thought they were all going to have a lovely meal together, considering the three adult seating arrangements on the dining table.

"He's a child," John simply said. "Sorry."

But it was getting a bit ridiculous when she saw Sherlock come in, then waltz right out when he saw her at the hospital corridor.

Molly had reached the end of her rope when it began to disrupt her _professional_ life — Greg was now reading out questions about a recent body at the morgue, but the phrasing _clearl_ _y_ had Sherlock written all over! She ripped the paper from the DI's hands and exclaimed, "If _his majesty_ wants answers about the case, he can bloody well ask the questions himself."

"Sorry, Molls, I know this is out of hand, but…" Greg scratched the back of his head awkwardly.

"I can't believe he even talked you into this," Molly went on.

The DI shrugged sheepishly. "Well, it _is_ my job to investigate after all. I thought I'd hit two birds with one stone if I had a bit of a try without him first. Well, without him _completely_."

So, it was a complete shock when Molly came home after a late-night shift by the end of the fourth week, to see the detective's length sprawled across her sofa. Adrenaline surged and she had one of her perfectly sensible runners in her hand, ready to throw at his prone form when he shifted and turned his body to face her.

He was fast asleep, his mess of curls falling across his face in a manner that made him look… almost soft. Sweet. As quickly as the anger came, it drained out of her, leaving her with only a sense of dull sadness. Molly lowered her hand and cursed beneath her breath at how this man was going to be the death of her.

After depositing her coat and bag neatly on a hook, she shuffled towards Sherlock and knelt down. She swallowed a sigh, hesitating only briefly before brushing his hair away from his temples affectionately, then firmly shaking his shoulder.

"Wake up, you sod," she said trying to sound sharp, but her tiredness made it sound more like an endearment.

Molly had to swallow a yelp when he did just that, his eyes immediately opening to regard her. Were there eyes more clear in the world? Molly thought wildly.

"You're late," he said roughly. Molly wondered if there was anything she could take to stem the shiver that coursed through her form. All her senses seemed to be on high alert at the sound of his baritone rolling in the darkness.

God, she hated him.

"There was an accident," she stated curtly, as she took a hasty step back. She was desperate to have some semblance of control and dignity, to block the way his presence shook her. "Wh-what the hell are you doing here?"

He rubbed his eyes, the gesture rather boyish as he continued in the same rough tone, "You know why. I just didn't expect to spend the night." He began to fiddle with the top buttons of his shirt, looking ready to strip.

Molly willed her heart to slow down. "Well, you still aren't. I don't cater to your schedule, let alone your random whims. Off you go." She gestured toward the door and tore her gaze away. _No._ No, she wasn't going to stare at the now-exposed column of his throat, lit only by the streetlamps from the windows.

She saw him stand from the corner of her eye and felt the sudden need to cross her arms, like she was creating a physical shield from his presence. It was so _unfair_ how much he affected her, especially knowing how unmoved he was.

"Please, I..." he began and something in his tone made Molly pause and turn her head back toward him. There was no other way to describe his expression but _haunted._

Molly bit her lip. Dammit.

"You are lucky, Sherlock Holmes..." Molly said slowly, hoping she wasn't making another colossal mistake. "...that I'm too tired to argue. But I'm in no mood to talk. I'm exhausted."

He seemed uncertain for a bit, but when she waved him to follow her to the bedroom, he quietly went through the motions of their regular bolt-hole evening routine.

Shower. Check. Pajamas. Check.

As Molly slipped under the covers with Sherlock by her side, she reminded herself this was just another friendly evening sleepover. Like kids, she thought to herself hysterically. Like overgrown, idiotic children…

Without warning, she felt her eyes leak. She buried her face into her pillow in mild mortification.

"Molly..." His voice sounded strangled as she felt him hesitantly touch her shoulder.

She shook her head as she hastily wiped her cheeks. "Go to sleep, Sherlock. Please."

The rest of the night was filled with fitful sleep.

.

/o/

.

When Molly woke up the next morning, Sherlock was gone. Like clockwork. The only indication that he'd stayed the night were his neatly folded pajamas at the corner of the bed. Molly groaned and rubbed her face.

She'd been avoiding the question for four weeks — "What does _Molly Hooper_ want?" — and the last evening brought forth the truth that was teasing her just beneath the surface.

She wanted it _all_.

But it also meant that she had to break off from Sherlock… for good. It was clear, even with space and time apart—two years, two weeks, two minutes—it didn't ultimately matter. When Sherlock was in her life, she would always yearn for more.

It was unfair to him.

It was unfair to her.

So when she opened the door to leave her bedroom, she did not at all expect the delicious smells wafting in the air. As she padded cautiously toward her kitchen, she wondered if she had somehow bumped her head and was in the middle of a lucid dream when she saw Sherlock, puttering about in her "Kiss the Cook" apron.

She was suddenly aware that she hadn't even bothered to brush her teeth, let alone comb her hair.

"Morning," he chirped, sounding positively peppy. He flashed her a brilliant smile, and Molly instinctively smoothed down her pajama top, as if somehow that would suddenly make her appearance more presentable.

A thought struck her. Oh god, was he _high?_

"I just had some coffee," he said dryly, as if reading her mind. She saw him pour coffee from a French press into her favorite cat mug—wait, she didn't own a French press! He must have brought it from 221B...

"Sherlock..?"

"I know. You plan to yell at me," he said brusquely. "But first, breakfast!"

He waved toward her dining table, while passing her the cat mug. The table was beautifully set in her best corning ware. A vase with a single sunflower completed the look.

"I didn't… I didn't know you cooked," she said faintly. What else was there to say?

"I don't. But I _am_ a master chemist," Sherlock said calmly. "Cooking is simply another science."

She barked out a startled laugh. "Well, um, a little more than that, but sure."

"Don't worry, no experiments… today. Scones are almost ready. I'm just finishing the hollandaise sauce for the poached eggs."

She sipped the coffee—delicious!—while she watched Sherlock continue cooking. She was only _mildly_ concerned that he was going to burn the flat down, but he seemed to have a hang of things. It was a nice look on Sherlock, she mused idly. It was rather…

Domestic.

At that train of thought, Molly carefully placed the coffee down. "Sherlock, what is this? What's all this about?"

He was currently concentrated on pouring the hollandaise sauce over the poached eggs _just so._ He straightened to his full height, ignoring her question as he placed the plate in front of her. It was presented simply but beautifully on top of a cut scone.

"Oh, I forgot the clotted cream," Sherlock exclaimed before also placing that down in front of her with a dramatic flourish.

"Sherlock..." Her tone held a warning note.

"Go on, try it."

"Sherlock, tell me what this is about."

He looked at her for a beat, his expression finally sobering. "I believe this is… what some people do to apologize."

Molly's lips dipped. "Oh, Sherlock. It doesn't matter. It's fine."

"I need to explain—"

She lifted her hand to stem his words, smiling at him sadly. "It was for a case. Fine. I don't need to know the details. I'm sure it was to save the world or some such. No, let me finish—" Molly broke in when she saw him draw breath. "Like you, I've had some time to think things through and… and I'm glad I said it. It was humiliating how it happened, but Sherlock, it's true. I..."

She laughed self-deprecatingly and said in a breathless rush, "I love you."

She held his gaze even though the blood was now rushing to her ears, and she swore he could hear her heart pounding. He returned her stare quietly, his eyes soft.

"I know you do." His tone was gentle.

Molly nodded, her laugh a little watery this time. "See? That would have been better, right? If I had said it in person first?"

"The circumstances—"

"It's fine, really," Molly said, trying to regain some sense of dignity. "I thought about it. All you did was pull the truth out and it made me _see_ , really see… the reality of the situation. I mean, how desperate was I, to make _you_ say it? Just to needle you? Just so I can pretend, even for a second, that you meant it? Kind of pathetic, right?"

Sherlock began to blink rapidly. "Molly, no. No, that's not what—"

"Really, it's fine. I'm fine, honestly… or I will be," Molly added as a stray tear tracked down her face. At that, Sherlock looked downright panicked. It was almost comical the series of expressions that flitted through his face before it finally settled to one of… determination?

"Molly, I never would have pegged you as dim."

Her jaw went slack. "Excuse me?"

"For a professional observer, whose entire job is to see details, you're being quite obtuse," Sherlock said haughtily. "It's not a good look, Hooper."

"I beg your _pardon?!_ I just… you're something else, Holmes." She bolted to her feet. "Get out. Just get out of my house, and please, get out of my _life_."

He shook his head. "Nope." He made a popping sound with his 'p' and now Molly began to suspect he was behaving _purposely_ like a brat. She had a sneaking suspicion that he was _trying_ to rile her up.

 _Why?_

She frowned, completely baffled.

"Look at me, Molly," he said finally, his sharp tone softening. He leaned back against the counter, propping his arm against the other while perching his chin on his hand. "Come on. Come closer. Please observe, like you would any other case, any other body."

"I don't..." she began confused, when her eyes caught the lacerations on his forearms. Startled, her eyes flew to meet his and then back down and without thinking, she raced towards him, grabbing his exposed arm.

"Sherlock, what the hell, what—"

"Please, Dr. Hooper, enlighten me. Age of injury?"

With slightly trembling fingers, she traced the angry lines down his arm, as they snaked down to his fingers. She was used to touching him, she'd examined him throughout the years, patched him up, but it still felt intimate—too intimate?—the way he let her touch him. She swallowed.

"Based on the fade, the healing… four weeks, give or take," she whispered.

"I tore apart a coffin." His tone was matter-of-fact, but his eyes… his eyes were stormy. She'd never seen him look at her that way.

"What?"

"Your life was in danger. A coffin was made for you. I tore it apart with my bare hands."

Molly shivered, confusion mounting but also… also a glimmer of… no, she couldn't. What was he saying?

 _What was he saying?_

"Sherlock..." She tore her gaze away and looked down at his hands, pretending to still observe his injuries, but it was getting harder as her vision began to blur.

"Molly..." he mimicked, grasping the hands that were still gently probing his. To her amazement, he slowly raised her fingers and brushed his lips against them. She trembled.

"I don't… I don't understand..."

After years of disappointment, she didn't know what to make of this. She didn't want to _hope…_

"I was coerced into playing a life and death game, one that was meant to tear me apart," Sherlock said softly.

"I never should have made you lie—"

"Molly. Let me finish. I understand your frequent interruptions this morning is a defense mechanism. Self preservation. I get it. But… you're safe. You're safe with me."

He squeezed her hands as if punctuating his point.

"And I know it's going to take a while until you believe me. Because I'm a bastard, you're right. I'm awful. I put you through more than you deserve because I'm a right mess." He gestured around them, at the spectacle of breakfast. "But I'm trying. I couldn't speak to you right away because the entire… debacle needed time to fix."

He paused. "And _I_ needed time first to figure out how to… how to prove what I said to you. Because I _knew_ you wouldn't believe me. Not right away."

Time stopped.

She started to believe Sherlock was a wizard, because there was no other explanation for how the world began to slow down, how heightened everything suddenly became.

The whiteness of her kitchen was never more white. The smell of the scones were starting to get cloying.

The way his thumb caressed the back of her hand felt like she was being branded.

"Even though you heard the words— _you heard._ I even said it twice. You clearly didn't believe me. So I knew that I had to start… proving it. Through action."

Molly's breath hitched. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I love you."

Yep, he was a wizard. The walls felt like they were moving.

Molly nodded stiffly, couldn't meet his eyes. "You're my friend, we're friends..."

"Please don't make me say, 'the way a man loves a woman.'"

At that, Molly began to laugh. "I think you just did."

And despite her nonchalance for the past few weeks, the careful steel she'd begun to raise around her heart, Molly promptly burst into tears.

She felt him move, but Molly, completely overwhelmed, took a step back. She saw the look of hurt flit through his face at what he perceived was her rejection. She hastily wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her polka-dot pajamas—oh _god,_ why did she put on this damn monstrosity!—and unsteadily made her way back to the dining table and sat down.

She hiccuped as she lifted a fork, still unable to look at him directly. "I think… I think I'm ready for breakfast."

He shifted his feet, utterly confused, but eventually followed her to the table.

They ate in total silence.

.

/o/

.

Molly took her time getting ready. She had a long luxurious shower, idled while she mused what to wear, and generally mimicked a sloth as much as possible.

She put on minimal makeup, just enough to freshen up a bit. After a beat, she decided to wear the nice dress she'd been conned to buying for Bart's Christmas party when she'd stopped by Selfridges. A Carolina Herrera dress, adorned with beautiful orange flowers. She took her time with a sideways plait — she knew she wasn't much of a fashionista, but she always had a knack for great up dos. So a sideways plait it was.

When she entered her living room, she released a breath she didn't know she was holding.

He was still there.

"I'm ready," she said clearly.

He craned his head around the couch as he slowly got up. He stumbled back and Molly had to hide a smile.

She hadn't said an entire word throughout the awkward breakfast, had said nothing when she disappeared to her room to get ready. She had made no indication as to what she wanted or how she felt.

And yet, he waited.

"Molly..." he breathed. Molly blushed, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

"Listen, I was wondering… if you'd like to have coffee?"

He stared at her for a moment, his lips twitching, his eyes taking an unmistakable sheen.

Sherlock only had to take three powerful strides before sweeping Molly Hooper into his arms.

Molly had her answer.

/o/

The End.

.

/o/

.

A/N: Like everyone, I just had to have my take. I just wanted something that mixed a _liiiiitle_ more silliness and humor. :)


End file.
